


nobody knows like me

by enbyharry



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1970s, Drinking, F/M, M/M, Trans Harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:01:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25661797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enbyharry/pseuds/enbyharry
Summary: Harry does his best to cope with a secret life in the summer of '74.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 26
Kudos: 196





	nobody knows like me

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by the debut of mustacherry in italy, the gc and i concocted up a rather sad story about harry being that secret gay uncle that no one really knows much about, who sometimes speaks of an old lover but lives his life in solitude
> 
> i hate to spoil things so let's just say, fuck sad endings, all my homies hate sad endings <3
> 
> listened to 70s music for the vibes while editing so title is from love grows (where my rosemary goes) by edison lighthouse

Proud. It's a sentiment Harry can't really touch, an unjust reality that settles upon him. Is it possible for someone to feel proud if they're living a lie? He feels proud, proud enough to exist within his own skin, but his nonconformity to what's expected of him having to be kept in secret makes him feel like he's anything but, makes him feel like a fraud, a coward. He wishes that people could see the pride he feels inside, that he can show that part off to the world. 

He wishes that he could stand in a crowd of his friends, surrounded by love and in love, in love with someone who captured his heart so long ago now, someone he had to let go of because of who they are.

Instead, he stands here in the garden at a party in the middle of the summer, holding some cocktail whipped up by the hostess from a mixology book she was sent last year from her sister in the states. The astrology aspect had given them quite a laugh when they flipped through it, looking at all the different recipes, thinking of liquors they would have to swap out, things that they didn’t have available like the Americans did.

He’s listening to the couples around him as they exchange stories about their recent holidays, about public snogging on the beaches in Majorca and holding hands while touring inside the Blackpool Tower. 

It’s unfair, to think of how he’s had to cast his heart aside while his friends can love as freely as God intended. Well, maybe not God — he can’t imagine such a being to exist when he’s set him up for a life of solitude because he’s unlike others. He long ago accepted that there’s nothing wrong with him; the hindrance falls on the world around him, incapable of allowing people who are different inside.

He hears a boisterous laugh across the garden and he turns his head to see the commotion. A group of lads, either gone stag or abandoned their wives to get riled up with their mates, stand by the pond having a smoke, sipping their whiskeys. It seems one just tried to wrestle another into the pond, narrowly missing plummeting them both into the water. Another one of the men seems to have stepped in, and Harry is sure that the wives of those two who were fighting would be grateful for him for sparing them the grief of cutting their nights short to drag home two soggy, drunken buffoons.

The guy who intervened begins to sense Harry's gaze, and he looks up, gives Harry a gentle smile with a burning cigarette hanging loosely between his lips. Harry turns his attention back to his company swiftly, too nervous to think if anyone had noticed the interaction, questioned whatever that meant.

He tunes back in, has enough energy to muster faux interest in whatever these couples are discussing. It’s not that he isn’t happy for them, but he wishes he could be happy for himself too. Wishes he and his lover didn’t have to stay apart.

There’s a woman in the circle, he’s sure he’s seen her at one of these parties before, giving him a flirty smile. He smiles back at her, the foreign bristle of his newly grown mustache brushing against his cheeks as they grow wide, and excuses himself from the group before she assumes that to be an invitation for more than just a friendly exchange.

On the coffee table, there’s the latest issue of Country Life, one that he hasn't yet received. He makes a mental note that he’ll have to catch up with the postman some day this week to see if maybe he’s dropped his copy off at another home by mistake. He considers flipping through it, curious to know what he’s missing out on, but the last thing he needs is a number of half strangers getting curious what interest a lad like him would have in keeping house.

He takes in the beautiful home he's standing in. Frances has such an incredible taste in decor, and Peter is happy to let her change anything and everything on a whim. Over the years, she's passed on some wonderful pieces that Harry has used to fill his own home, dreaming to one day be able to invite visitors into his space, more than just his mum and sister, or the other friends like him that he's met over the years. He would love to have a home where he can entertain, throw parties and not worry how he'll be received by his own guests. The dream is distant, but for the few who can see it, it's a fantasy fulfilled.

After a few moments, more adults begin to shuffle into the home, filling seats around the room. Harry’s suddenly not in the mood to talk to anyone else, to chum it up and pretend like there's not something inside of him desperate to claw her way out and make her presence known, so he wanders through the home, like he’s done so many times before. His best mate’s home, one of the few places outside of his own where he feels welcome, like he doesn’t have to hide. His mate hasn't come to know every part of Harry, but he knows a few secrets, knows and accepts and loves him anyway. Doesn’t treat him like he’s some smudge on his existence, and he wishes everyone could just be the same.

He looks down the corridor, sees the family photos proudly displayed on the walls for everyone to view. This is the sort of life he dreamt for himself since primary school, since he and Nancy Martin would run around playing house, pretending to be husband and wife. Didn’t every child, really? He imagined a life in a terraced house much like the one he grew up in, with a lovely wife and two well-behaved kids, perhaps even a dog, and a Morris Minor.

It was unlike the life he experienced growing up, save for the house, with just his mum and Gemma. His father wasn’t around much, and he grew up ostracized by his community for it, for existing in a way that wasn’t picture perfect. Despite all the love that his mother gave them, despite knowing that some of their peers with both parents still didn’t receive as much love as they did, sometimes even having the opposite. They treated their home life like it was worse because it was different. 

Over time, he realised that fantasy was something that had been planted in his mind by what he was shown to believe was the model family. Around his pubescent years, that fantasy had been shattered, and he slowly put the pieces back together in a way that felt more natural to him. He watched as it began to transform into something strange, something abominable. Another man filled in his place as husband, which was bizarre enough, but it became unrecognizable when he later discovered a twisted desire to be there in place of the wife. He wanted to cook and clean and tend to his garden, to his home, wait for his husband to arrive home after a long day on the job with a kiss on the lips and a warm plate on the table. He wanted to bear the children, to care for them and love them in a way only a mother could, to bring them into this unfortunate world that would never allow a family like theirs to exist peacefully.

He began to ache for his lover, one the same as him, different to the world and choosing to live a lie to save face, to avoid the looks and the chatter, and in a worse scenario, the violence that would come after them if they had chosen to be together. The world tore them apart, made it impossible for them to carry a life built in a way that they wanted.

He finds himself at the end of the corridor, knocking on the door to his goddaughter’s bedroom. Olivia, they called her — a beautiful name for a beautiful girl. He vividly remembers the day of her baptism, holding her tiny, squealing body in his arms before the priest performed the rituals. His mate received a lot of flack from his parents and from the church, choosing two unwed to be the godparents of his child, but he stood firmly with his choice, and Harry was grateful at how willing his best mate had become to support him through life, just as he had chosen Harry to support him and his family.

Olivia opens the door and reveals herself, and her sister Milly climbing out of a pile of stuffed animals. “Uncle Harry!” She screams and jumps into his arms, wrapping herself around him like a monkey. 8 years now, almost getting way too big for this, but he’s had a special place for her since the day she was born, and he’ll be happy to hold onto her for as long as he can. He plants wet kisses all over her cheek as he spins her in his arms, and she giggles and squirms away from him, from the ticklish hair on his face. 

“Shhhh. ‘m here as a secret.” He puts her back to the floor and shuts the door behind him, scanning the room for somewhere to sit. He thanks the heavens just this once for his tight hips, and squeezes himself into a tiny chair sitting at their play table, a tea party visibly in progress. “Milly, love, c’mere.” 

Milly, 5 and mighty, clambers into his lap and knocks the wind out of him as she gives him a hug and a smooch on the cheek. “Are you here to play with us?” She says, and her big blue eyes stare up at him in question. Harry supposes it would be no hardship to spare a few minutes to his favorite girls. 

“Obviously. Pour me a cuppa, would you?”

They sit around the table, carrying on chatter like the adults outside these four walls. Olivia’s telling Harry about a boy at school she thinks may fancy her, and Harry tells her she’s far too young to have a boyfriend.

“Uncle Harry, when will you get married like mummy and daddy?” She says, shifting in her chair to make space for one of her teddies who has decided to join in on the party.

“I dunno. I would if I could.” He holds out his cup as Milly offers another round of tea to the table, politely thanking her.

“Have you ever been in love before?”

“Once or twice. I still am, I suppose. But my love and I — we can’t be together.”

“That’s sad. I hope you’ll find a girl someday who you can love.”

 _I have her_ , he wants to say. _I have her and I love her as much as I can, every day. And I love him too._

“Thank you, love.”

“Will you let me do your makeup?” She asks, already getting up from her chair and reaching for a small cosmetic box on her bedside table.

“Olivia! You can’t do that, he’s a boy!” Milly protests.

“I don’t mind, love. Look, I’m very manly.” He flexes his muscles and wiggles his mustache in display of his so-called manliness. Children at this age wouldn’t understand, grasp the idea that what he showed on the outside had nothing to do with who he was inside. “Won't bother me one bit. Just don’t tell mum and dad, right?”

As loving and supportive as his friends have been to him, they’ve decided the girls are still much too young to learn about who Harry is. It’s fair after all, and he supposes it’s better than the possibility of them running around town, proclaiming to everyone they know that their Uncle Harry is a homosexual. Still, he’s curious to know what his girls would think of him, to know they have a deviant as labeled by their society sitting right here, having imaginary tea and biscuits as they play with his hair.

The girls get to work with the small collection of products from their mum. A bright pink blusher streaked across his cheeks, a gaudy blue eyeshadow smudged onto his lids with tiny fingers, tacky, dry red lipstick dragged against his lips.

Olivia offers up the tiny mirror in her music box for Harry to see their handiwork, and he thinks he looks quite good. Milly was a bit heavy handed with the eyeshadow, shading the color all the way to his eyebrows, but Olivia did a wonderful job applying the lipstick, remaining mostly within the lines of his lips, his moustache giving her a bit of difficulty to apply it smoothly around the top. It’s not his personal style and he feels a bit garish, silly like the transexuals in the Rocky Horror musical he went down to London to see last fall, but he holds back tears thinking about how his girls did this for him, not a care about what’s expected of a man. 

He gives them hugs and thanks them for their fabulous makeover, leaving them with a promise to visit again in a few weeks time, then pops into the bathroom down the hall. He's careful to check if the coast is clear, void of anyone capable of making a spectacle, or worse, harboring what they saw like a secret and spreading it around the community with no warning, no way for him to give a defense of his character, to proclaim that he's not what anyone suggests he is.

He takes in the sight of himself in the mirror one last time, and he’s happy that it’s a special memory he’ll have with his girls. He washes the makeup quickly, watches as the colors mix into the sink, the last remnants of himself rinsing down the drain. He lets the flush of his skin, the tell of an identity hidden, fade to normal before slipping right back into the party, the drunk revelers being none the wiser.

The party begins to wind down after that, many of the couples filing out to relieve babysitters of their duties for the night. His buzz has mostly worn off so he fixes himself another drink before he goes, and seeks out his friends to tell them goodbye. As he’s heading to his car, the same man from earlier, the one by the pond, approaches him by his car, shouts, “Oi! You right to get home on your own, mate?” He’s loud, much louder than necessary, but Harry figures that could just be the booze talking, amplifying his surroundings.

“Yeah, yeah. Thanks.”

“Get home safe, right?” The guy steps back from Harry’s car as he gets in, careful not to hit anyone or thing as he backs out of the long driveway. A few stragglers come and drag the man back inside, and Harry watches on as they shut the door behind them, closing off his curiosity.

By the time Harry gets home, he’s a happy drunk. It takes more tries than he’d like to admit to get his key into the door. He falls into the motions after a night out, letting the dog inside from their large, private garden, filling his bowls with water and kibble.

When he’s alone, away from the curious eyes of a world that doesn’t understand him, he has the freedom to be whoever he wants. The burden of the world is pulled away from him and her soul is liberated. The walk to her bedroom falls with a lighter step than the way she carried herself all night, the way she’s learned to perform, a side of herself she’s been shamed into holding onto. She loves that part of herself just as much as this one, but she wishes she didn’t have to force one over the other for other peoples’ comfort.

After her bath, a soft purple dressing gown adorned with white lace trim around the neckline and the flouncy bell sleeves awaits her at her vanity. She pulls on a pair of pink nylon knickers before the dressing gown, and props her foot onto the chair to lotion her legs. She takes the time to work the floral scented cream into her skin, gently wiping away a few beads of blood which mar her skin. Years of shaving her legs when she needs it and she's never gotten any better about not nicking herself with the razor. When she spends a night being someone else, she loves to take extra time in pampering herself, to give herself the love no one else will.

When Gemma first found out about who Harry really was, she didn’t speak with him for almost two months. It broke his heart, his own sister rejecting him for something he didn’t choose. Their mum raised them well enough that Harry thought his sister would be more receptive, open, willing to give those shut out by the world a chance, the way they hoped they could have been treated as children being punished for their father’s choice. But it took her time to come around, to recognize that Harry was the same person she had known for her entire life.

That day when Gemma apologised, she came bearing a single gift for Harry — a sterling silver hair brush, similar to the one their nan had given to Gemma when they were teenagers, something she insisted every girl should own. Harry had gotten upset that day, stormed to his room with no explanation, and everyone assumed it was just because he was a boy, jealous that he didn’t receive a gift. The memory of that moment was like a light bulb going off for Gemma, and she cried as she recalled that day, cried thinking about Harry’s pain from being overlooked by everyone, believed to be nothing more than a petulant child instead of a young girl wanting to be seen. 

Her mother and sister did their very best to accept who he was, who she was. There were many lost years they attempted to make up for, but she was just grateful to have the two most important people since her first day of life right by her side.

She takes her antique brush in hand and begins to manipulate her hair. It’s still damp, and more cooperative than the uncouth mess she normally wears it in, so she parts it to one side and slicks it down, tucking the longer strands behind her ears. Like this she feels pretty enough. Whole enough. 

She hears the dog trotting down the corridor as she’s putting on a dark rose colored lipstick, the jingle of his collar announcing his arrival. A moment later, a pair of strong arms are wrapping around her waist, her lover shifting behind her, onto his tiptoes to give her a whiskey scented kiss on the cheek.

“Alright, gorgeous?” He’s drunk, swaying into Harry’s space, obviously having enjoyed his time with the lads.

Harry knows, knows it’s easier for him. Well, not easier. It’s a sacrifice both of them have to make. Knows it pains Louis just as much to not proudly show the world the woman he loves. But it also feels more natural for Louis, to fall in with the guys he’s known since primary school, to pretend he’s just another one of the lads. To pretend he’s too busy being a lady’s man, _so many women out there, how could he possibly settle for one quite yet_? He has assured Harry, after hearing the tune of a single man so many times over, that she’s the only woman he needs.

“I am. Now that you’re home. Here with me.” She turns into Louis’ arms, the cloying waft of tobacco lingering from his presence, and allows him to take her mouth, falling against her as he licks his tongue inside. She’s still growing used to the way it feels as their moustaches brush against each other. Unsure if the hairs tickling the tip of her nose, causing her to giggle and smile against Louis’ lips, are of Louis’ moustache or her own. 

She pulls back, breath running short already, and laughs at the mess she’s made of Louis’ mouth, the smear of lipstick stained across both of their mouths, their chins. They look at each in the mirror and Louis rests his head against her shoulder, hugs her tighter.

“Of course I am,” he slurs. He’s sloppy, clingy, and Harry hopes that he’s left his car at Peter’s place, hopes that they can spend a lovely Sunday lazing around before dropping by to pick it up instead of starting off their day with her reprimanding him for making such a poor decision tonight. He nuzzles at her throat and gives a long, exhausted yawn. “Nothing will keep me from you, darling.”

And even though she can’t show her pride for the life the two of them have built together, can’t let the world outside of a few trusted people know that they have each other, Harry feels proud just standing here, being here, having found love for herself in more ways than one.

**Author's Note:**

> i swear i didn't intend to make this one trans harry, it just jumped out at me lmao
> 
> if you're in love with harry styles and all his gender things, come cry about it with me on [tumblr](http://non-binharry.tumblr.com)


End file.
